Page:While the Billy Boils, 1913.djvu/180



At least two hundred poor beggars were counted sleeping out on the pavements of the main streets of Sydney the other night―grotesque bundles of rags lying under the verandahs of the old Fruit Markets and York-street shops, with their heads to the wall and their feet to the gutter. It was raining and cold that night, and the unemployed had been driven in from Hyde Park and the bleak Domain―from dripping trees, damp seats, and drenched grass―from the rain, and cold, and the wind. Some had sheets of old newspapers to cover them―and some hadn't. Two were mates, and they divided a Herald between them. One had a sheet of brown paper, and another (lucky man!) had a bag―the only bag there. They all shrank as far into their rags as possible―and tried to sleep. The rats seemed to take them for rubbish, too, and only scampered away when one of the outcasts moved uneasily, or coughed, or groaned―or when a policeman came along.

One or two rose occasionally and rooted in the dust-boxes on the pavement outside the shops―but they didn't seem to get anything. They were feeling 'peckish,' no doubt, and wanted to see if they could 156